The Kings of Clonmel

Chapter 43

Will heard the first clash of sword on shield as he and the marshal dragged the staggering Genovesan towards the field of combat. Curious spectators separated before the small group. The ice vendor followed behind him, puzzled, but curious to see what was about to unfold.

The crowd roared and he realised the sound was coming from the western stands, where Horace's supporters were seated. For a wild moment his hopes rose that Horace had somehow managed to win. Then he pushed through to the barrier that marked the southern end of the combat area and his heart sank. Both combatants were still standing but he could see Horace was in trouble. His friend's natural grace and speed had deserted him and he stumbled about the field, desperately warding off Gerard's attacks, and striking back with ineffectual counters.

Will saw the one useful blow that Horace struck and for a moment, as Gerard swayed, he thought the huge man might be about to fall. But then he stepped back,recovered and charged into Horace, sending him flying, to crash awkwardly on his back.

The huge sword in Gerard's hand was being held like a dagger as he prepared to drive it down, plunging it into Horace's helpless body. Acting entirely by instinct, Will shrugged his bow off his shoulder and into his left hand. As he raised it, an arrow seemed to nook itself to the string and he drew and fired in a heartbeat.

Gerard's snarl of triumph turned abruptly into a screech of agony as the arrow transfixed the muscle of his upper right arm.

He wheeled away from the prone body before him, the sword falling harmlessly from his nerveless hand, clasping with his left hand at the throbbing pain that had burst out in his arm, sending shooting blasts of agony down to his hand and fingers. The crowd, after an initial gasp of surprise, was shocked to silence.

Tennyson came to his feet, drawing breath to shout for the marshals. But another voice beat him to it. A young voice.

`Treachery!' Will yelled at the top of his lungs. 'Treachery! The Sunrise Warrior has been poisoned by Tennyson! Treachery!'

Tennyson's eyes swung towards the voice. His heart sank as he heard the accusation of poisoning and saw the bound, hobbling figure of the Genovesan. Somehow, his plot had been discovered.

Halt, on his feet now in the crowd, realised the need to maintain the momentum. He began echoing Will's cry.

`Treachery! Treachery!' And, as he had hoped, those around him took it up, not knowing the how or the why of it but caught up in the mass hysteria. The word rang round the arena.

Will, dragging the Genovesan with him, turned to the ice vendor and whispered a quick instruction to him. The man hesitated, a puzzled look on his face. Then as Will urged him, he turned and ran back towards the pavilion.

Will was almost up to the central point of the arena now, where Horace had slowly regained his feet and where Gerard crouched, hunched over and still clasping his wounded arm. He shoved the Genovesan forward, sending him stumbling to his knees.

'I caught this man in the Sunrise Warrior's pavilion, trying to destroy the evidence. Look beside Tennyson and you'll see his cohorts!'

An angry murmur swept through the crowd. Will noted that it wasn't confined to the King's side of the arena. Some of Tennyson's recent 'converts' looked questioningly at the priest, flanked by two of the Genovesans. The foreigners were unpopular. Since joining Tennyson's band, their arrogant manner had done little to endear them to their colleagues.

In the silence now, Will spoke up: 'The Warrior's drinking water was drugged by this man.' He pointed to the Genovesan, who was on the ground before him. 'And he was working for Tennyson! They've betrayed the sacred rules of trial by combat.'

Tennyson searched for a reply, knowing every eye was on him. He was close to panic. He was used to using the dynamics of mob opinion for his own benefit, not to having them turned against him. Then a lifeline was thrown to him, as Will's Genovesan prisoner struggled to rise to his feet.

'Proof!' the Genovesan shouted, his voice thickly accented. 'Where's your proof? Where is this drugged water? Produce it now!'

He looked up at Tennyson and gave him a discreet nod. The priest's spirits soared. His man had got to the tent in time to destroy the evidence. So now the situation could be reversed.

He echoed the man's challenge.

'Proof! Show us proof if you accuse us! Bring the proof here now!'

'He switched his gaze from Will to the King, seated opposite. His voice rose, thundering now with all the power of a trained orator, sure of his ground once more.

'This man has violated the sacred rules of trial by combat! He has attacked my champion. Now his life must be forfeit and Gerard must be proclaimed the winner! He makes charges against me but he does so without proof. If there is proof, let him show it now!'

He frowned as he realised that eyes in the royal enclosure were looking to his right, where Will stood. He followed their gaze and saw the young man smiling triumphantly as he held up a tumbler. Beside him, the ice vendor, who had run all the way to do his bidding, stood hunched over, recovering his breath.

Will looked at the Genovesan. 'You thought you'd destroyed the evidence, didn't you? You poured the water out of the jug onto the ground so nobody would ever know.'

Tennyson saw the doubt suddenly flicker in his henchman's eyes as they fastened on the tumbler. Will raised his voice now so that more people could hear him.

'But I got to the tent first. And I poured some of the water into this mug. I thought Tennyson might try something like that. I was curious to see what this poisoner would do when he got there.'

He looked to Ferris, who had risen from his throne and moved forward to the front of the enclosure.

'You majesty, this is a sample of the poisoned water they used to drug the Sunrise Warrior. It's Tennyson and his cult who have broken the rules of fair combat. They've tried to subvert a fair trial by combat and they stand condemned.'

Ferris rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. He might have been weak and vacillating but even a weak man will resist if he's given enough provocation. And Tennyson's contemptuous threats had finally gone too far.

'Can you prove this?' he asked Will. Will smiled and gripped the Genovesan by the scruff of his collar, dragging him to his feet and shoving the tumbler against his tightly closed lips.

'Easily,' he said. 'Let's see what happens when our friend here drinks it.'

The Genovesan began to thrash frantically against Will's iron grip. But Will held him fast and again thrust the tumbler to his mouth.

`Go ahead,' he said. He turned to the marshal. 'Marshal, would you pinch his nose for me so his mouth will have to open?'

The marshal obliged and the Genovesan's lips finally parted as he had to breathe. But as Will raised the tumbler to his open lips, the assassin, with a supreme effort, tore one hand free from his restraints and dashed the tumblerout of Will's hands, sending it spinning and spilling the water onto the grass.

Will released him and stood back. He spread his hands in appeal to the King.

'I think his actions speak for themselves, your majesty,' he said. But Tennyson instantly screamed his dissent.

'They prove nothing! Nothing! This is all circumstantial! There is no real proof. It's a web of lies and tricks.'

But the crowd was against him. And now, a large proportion of those who had come here with him were also turning away. Voices were raised against him, angry voices of people who were beginning to realise they had been tricked.

'There's one certain way to find out who's lying,' Will shouted, and the arena went silent. 'Let's test it in the highest court of all.'

Ferris was taken aback. The suggestion was unexpected. 'Trial by combat?' he said.

Will nodded, jerking a contemptuous thumb at the Genovesan.

'Him and me. Here and now. One arrow each, from opposite ends of the ground,' he said.

'No! I tell you it's…'Tennyson began to shout but the crowd drowned him out. They were eager for another duel and they believed in the divine, unarguable power of trial by combat as a way of finding the truth.

Ferris looked around the arena. The idea had popular support, he could see. The alternative was to spend weeks in his court arguing the toss, with no prospect of a clear-cut answer. Tennyson was glaring his hatred at him and suddenly Ferris was heartily tired of the overweight, overblown charlatan in a white robe.

`Go ahead,' he said.

The crowd roared again. And now, a good proportion of those sitting on Tennyson's side joined in the chorus of approval.